


scare me up a little bit of love

by stillmadaboutpetra



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Turned Into a Ghost, Dark Romance, Gothic, Haunted Houses, Horror, M/M, Obsessive Behavior, Romance is dead, Romance isn't dead, Romanticism, Simon is a ghost, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, self-aware
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:59:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29717529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillmadaboutpetra/pseuds/stillmadaboutpetra
Summary: It’s been a year. He’s worn down. He’s conditioned. He’s accepted his fate. He’s haunted by a ghost. There’re worse ghosts out there. He knows a lady who was driven mad by her ghost. It could be worse; at least the ghost is in love with him.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 61
Kudos: 111





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theflyingpeach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theflyingpeach/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peachy MWUAH thanks for letting me steal ur idea about ghosty Simon 
> 
> There's a playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3HMpenqDpp2osf4i2sk26M
> 
> Peach aka theflyingpeach also did amazing fanart for this so tell them theyre amazing

* * *

> * * *

It’s the fourth date Jared’s been on with Basil and it’s gone well. He likes to think so. He’d gone and rented a 1969 Stringray for tonight, a classic import; Basil is a car man, though you wouldn’t think it to look at him. Maybe all those buttons of his need popped. The coifed hair tugged out of order. Stripped down. That’s an idea Jared can get behind.

Basil neatens himself now, smoothing a hand down the front of his jacket after he buttons it, stepping out of the car. He’s all sharp lines; he’s impeccable. A latin teacher for a private school; good family out in the country; dead sexy; suspiciously single at thirty-six. On paper, he’s a prince. In person? He’s fucking weird. He gives Jared the creeps even as much as he turns him on.

“That was risky,” Basil says, turning his face up to the warm night sky. “A mime skit.”

Jared laughs. He hopes Basil’s teasing him. He’d gone for a peculiar sort of show tonight, avante-arde - cultured. Basil is a man of culture. Jared is a man of new money. (This does not equal culture.) (Culture can be bought.) (This is a lie we are led to believe.) Jared had read that a weird date trumps a regular date. So he’d taken Basil to a new hole in the wall bar. Bought street food from the worst-best-kept secret vendor out of a square of a booth (obscene crepes.) And a mime skit biography from some foreign performer. On paper, it’s a good date. (He thinks so.)

“I liked it,” Jared insists, joining Basil outside of his house. A proper house, off some quiet road on the edge of town. A neighborhood; a silent sprawl of homes.

“Did you?” Basil raises a taunting eyebrow at him. He’s smug. He’s cool and hot. One button. Two. Rip the jacket off him.

“Eh, it was alright,” Jared amends. Basil lists into him, taking a step that puts his leg in the space of Jared’s - the warm night blisters.

“I’m going to invite you in,” Basil murmurs in his ear, a puff of humid breath. “But snog me now.”

They’re not even on the doorstep. Not even on his little walk-up steps. They’re smack on the sidewalk. Jared isn’t saying no. Not when this is what he wants. He takes Basil against him and kisses him, first politely, then deeply, thrilling at the press of their bodies. Basil makes a deep sound into his mouth; it lands like a rock in the bottom of a pond.

“Not bad,” Basil says as they break apart. He smooths a hand over his hair and neatens his clothes again.

“Did I pass the test?” Jared jokes, trailing behind him to the house.

“Oh, no. That was a good luck kiss. The test starts...now.” Basil opens his front door and waves Jared in.

Jared laughs, creeped out and turned on. “Oh, right. Your ghost.”

The smile he gets splits the night in a white streak. “Yes, my ghost. He’s very jealous, you see. An absolute nightmare.”

On paper, Basil Pitch is perfect. He had been striking on their first date; sharp and witty, gorgeous, confident. His singlehood in his late thirties made sense; he was too good to pin down. He was looking for his perfect match.

Except that isn’t why Basil was single. Not according to him.

_“I’m haunted.”_

_“Haunted?”_

_“I have a ghost; he’s a bit of a nuisance. Absolutely obsessed with me. It puts a cramp in my love life.”_

_“A boo-friend?”_

_Basil had laughed. “Don’t encourage him. He’s stark raving.”_

It seemed like a peculiar joke. An idiosyncrasy fitting a man like him. It worked with the tweed-tobacco-Latin vibe. Jared accepted it as first date banter (despite mentions of the ghost’s habits “Sorry I’m late, my ghost kept opening the windows last night. Didn’t sleep a wink.”) Now, it looms. The door creaks wider.

“Well, shall I let every insect in tonight?” Basil shifts impatiently, still smiling, but it’s gone polite and sly. Jared steps into the house.

It’s all warm wood, deep red. The front light comes on, a small antique chandelier. Really? It’s classic and lovely.

“What shall I expect from your ghost?” Jared shrugs out of his sport coat, letting Basil slide a hanger through it and tuck it away into a small closet at the entrance.

“It depends,” Basil says in a matter of fact tone. “If you’re a nice boy and keep your hands to yourself, he’ll probably just huff and stomp. But if you do to me what you did outside,” he trails off for a moment, looking around the house. Not worried; his mouth is tucked into an anticipatory smile, “he might have a thing or two to say about that.”

“Talks, does he?”

“Oh, hardly. He doesn’t have a way with words. He’s all,” Basil waves a hand in the air and leads them on through the entranceway, into the living room, veering into the open plan kitchen. He turns on another warm light; the bulbs zings to life; it rattles and settles with a flicker; “slamming objects and throwing fits. Constantly in a strop. Pain in my arse.”

“Thought you were sweet on him,” Jared teases, playing along, trying to keep the itching creep off the back of his neck. Basil’s pouring them wine. Good, dark ruby red. Leggy in the glass.

“Don’t tell him that. You’ll only make it worse.”

“Sorry,” Jared pretends to zip his lips. Basil’s eyebrow tilts up again; he watches Jared from between obscene lashes. He’s too tempting not to kiss again. Slide in against him and take that narrow jaw in his hands; Basil hums like the lightbulb coming to life. They cheers to a well-kept secret and another bit of snogging.

Jared lifts the glass to his lips, tingling with the taste of Basil in his mouth, a sure compliment, and the whole thing tilts in a smack, the rim chipping up to his teeth; wine sloshes over his chin and down. He sputters and coughs.

“Lord, alright?” Basil asks, setting his glass down, snatching the tea towel from the hook. He passes it to Jared, frowning.

“I - oh, bloody hell,” Jared curses, mopping himself clean. “That’s embarrassing. My word.”

“Indeed,” Basil tsks. He tears off a row of paper towels and squats down at Jared’s feet to wipe the floor of the spill. “I won’t hold it against you.”

There goes the shirt. Ruined. At least he took off his jacket. That’s been spared.

“Do you have a-”

“The bathroom is just round from the entrance,” Basil guides him. “Would you like a clean shirt to wear?”

“Do you mind? I’ll soak this in the sink with some cold. Might save it yet.”

Jared closes himself into the little bathroom and starts to strip. Wine’s gone through to his undershirt, but that’s just a basic, no loss there. My word, is he such a clutz? He tries to replay the incident; he’s spilled before. Just embarrassing. It’s the nerves. It’s the fingers on the back of his neck. Basil intimidates him. This ghost nonsense.

“Nonsense,” he says to himself in the little bathroom all alone. He runs his shirt under a cold tap and turns to the toilet, flipping up the lid and seat to take a piss. He no sooner starts then, midstream, the lid comes down.

Can’t bloody well turn off the hose now. He shouts but he’s still pissing, except now he’s pissing on the lid of the toilet.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” oh fuck. Fuck, he pisses on the floor. Oh bloody fuck. He squeezes his bladder, cutting himself off. “Oh, hell. Fuck me. Fuck me to - fuck,” he’s done it now. Gone and pissed on the floor. Fuck, it’s on his shoes. Christ; shat the bed completely.

He tries to open the lid again to finish off, but the damned thing won’t open. Sod it. He wheels off sheets of toilet paper, the roll rattling around on its beam. It’s a mess in there. The sinks running behind him. Maybe he can piss in the sink. He’s crouched down, trying to wipe off all the pee he can see, cursing under his breath, starting to sweat.

The floor’s wet.

What the-- “oh fuck me.”

The sinks overflowing. His shirt’s crammed into the drain. There’s water everywhere. When did that happen?

“What the fuck.” Shit shit shit arse and tits. He takes a moment to put his cock back in his pants before fighting the tap. Fighting it. He twists one way and the next, doesn’t matter, the water only gets heavier. The whole thing’s a bloody swimming pool. He yanks on his shirt.

The lights go out.

“Basil!”

The knob won’t turn.

“Basil! Basilton! I’m - help.”

There’s a bang from outside the door. Stomping feet.

“Simon,” Basil barks from beyond the door. “Let him out. You’re ruining my bathroom. Again. Damn you, you brute. Don’t torture the poor man. I won’t be happy with you. I’m very cross. Very very cross. First I’ve gone and stained a teatowel for you, now - the bathroom’s flooding, you unbearable blight. You’re a curse. You’re throwing a tantrum. You should see yourself - oh, ha, silly me. You’re a shaft a light plaguing my eyes. Stop this. ”

Jared rattles and shakes the knob.

“Basil, get me the fuck out of here.”

“Yes, yes, I’m working on it. Do calm down. Don’t be a tit.”

A sodding ghost. Haunted.

_I’m haunted._

Well Basil Pitch can die alone with his ghost. He’s getting out of here.

Jared kicks the door. Basil shouts at him not to hurt it. Hurt it. The damned door. Damn the door. He kicks it again. His foot hurts.

The door swings open. Basil’s there, a clean shirt bundled in his arms.

“I warned you,” he says mildly.

“You’re fucking mental,” Jared curses. His steps splash on the floor. Basil looks down and purses his lips at the scene.

“What a mess.”

“I’m out of here,” Jared raves, near to a run. He shakes out a wet foot. “Don’t call me again.”

“It was you calling me,” he hears behind him. Well. That may have been the case, but his point stands. He’s out of here. He’s gone.

He’s free!

(He forgets his coat.)

* * *

“Well,” Basil clicks his tongue at the aftermath, staring into his bathroom. “Thank you for ruining another date, Simon. You’re a joy and a treasure.”

The faucet turns off with a squeak.

“Why does it smell like piss in here? Did you make him piss himself?”

The toilet lid flies up. Basil sees the unflushed urine and sighs. “That old trick? You’re a child, honestly. I’d like to put you in a corner.”

The toilet flushes. It’s hardly a fitting apology.

“Can you clean this up? There’s toilet paper everywhere. Gracious, you made the poor man panic. You’re going to give me a reputation about town, then what will I do? I’m running out of gay men. We don’t grow on trees, you know.”

_Good._

The word floats through the house. Basil hisses in response. He feels a tug on his clothes. One of his buttons slips out of its noose. Then another. He shoves his hand blindly before him; he feels a cut of wind lace between his fingers.

“Don’t flirt with me. I’m cross with you. He had a lot of money, you know.” The ghost pinches his butt. Basil yelps and swats at the air with the shirt. “Don’t you want me to be rich and pampered?”

He hears a chatter of glass in the kitchen. Oh bloody hell, Simon better not be breaking things again. There’s a thud. Basil abandons his bathroom and storms through the house back to his kitchen.

A lit candle. A new glass of wine.

“I’m still cross,” Basil tells his ghost even as he sighs and leans against his counter, taking a full sip of wine. It’s good. It would have been nice to share a glass with someone. But, it’s better to break the heart now. Find out in the beginning that his date can’t withstand a little ghostly temper. Honestly, it’s a mess. Honestly, Basil can’t resist. He’s sick; it gives him a laugh. A little laugh he only lets his ghost hear. He’s mental, that’s right. He’s haunted, can you blame him?

The buttons of his shirt undo themselves one by one. He sighs and shrugs out of it, leaving himself in his slacks and his undershirt. A slice of cold greets the skin of his belly as ghostly fingers untuck him; a firm but intangible palm flattens over his navel and rubs a circle that fades in a second.

“You’re cleaning up the mess you made,” Basil threatens, pointing a finger vaguely around the room. “I’m taking a bath. I need to relax - Mimes! Can you imagine? Oh, I’m sure you’d have loved it. No speaking, only play-acting. You should take a class, it might improve your condition.”

The hands return, tugging on his shirt. Basil smacks them away in a practiced motion. “Do not follow me.”

Who is he kidding? Locked doors can’t stop Simon. Not that he wants them to, not anymore.

It’s been a year. He’s worn down. He’s conditioned. He’s accepted his fate. He’s haunted by a ghost. There’s worse ghosts out there. He knows a lady who was driven mad by her ghost. It could be worse; at least the ghost is in love with him. Basil is just doomed to be single.

In a way.

He’s not really alone, not here, not with Simon. He always has Simon.

He gets in the bath with his glass of wine and loads of bubbles. He never runs out of hot water. That’s one perk. (He used to run out of hot water all the time, when this first began. They used to annoy each other.) He makes the bath as hot as he can stand; it leaves him red. He nearly boils himself. He has to. It has to be as hot as it can be because -

“I can feel you staring.”

Because -

“Make yourself useful.” He holds out his wine glass; the bottle pours from the air. It’s less terrifying to witness over time. He’s immune now.

Because -

“Oh, just get in, will you. Troublesome thing.” He pulls his knees up, makes space. The water sloshes gently, a wave coming to lick at his neck. The bubbles part and pop; _Baz_. Basil stretches his feet out into the cold space at the other end of the bath. Pressure grips his ankles, runs up his calves to massage the muscle. He’s a bit sore from the last game of pick-up football he’d joined. He’s getting old. He’s in good shape. Simon dotes. He is an adoring thing, isn’t he?

The hot water staves off the chill of Simon in the bath with him. Basil flicks water at the other end of the long bath; it hits something, _someone_ , and drips down a broad form. Basil squints his eyes and tries to make him out; sometimes, in the right light, in dust motes and sunshine, he can see the man of his most gentle horror. It’s too dark now.

The pressure on his legs moves up to stroke his thighs, smoothing down the floating drift of his leg hair. Tracing the undercurve of his buttocks.

“I won’t enable your bad behavior,” Basil protests, closing his legs. “You’re a menace.”

The touch retreats. Basil pokes his foot at his ghost. His toes dip into snow. The water cools slowly. There is never enough heat in this house, even on summer nights. His ghost is a black hole; he is a dead spot. Basil invites him into his bed, night after night. He makes love to death.

Bubbles billow and burst beneath his chin. Soap sticks to his lips. He licks it off. It says _Baz_ on his skin.

He’s haunted, and he doesn’t think he minds very much. There are worse things.


	2. Chapter 2

Basil has run out of eligible men to date. He feels like the heroine in an Austen novel, cycled through his selection of suitable spouses, doomed to spinsterhood. He’s thirty-seven; sexy, single, ready to mingle. Save for Simon, breathing down his neck.

(Simon doesn’t breathe. If he did, he’d be a mouth-breather, gape with his maw half-hinged; he’d be deliciously blank; he’d have a wet rose for lips. Basil can sense these things in a man, and ghost or not, Simon is a man. There lies half the problem.)

It’s all for the best at the moment. He’s swamped with work. He’s made a terrible mistake. (Many.) Taken on another section at his regular job, lumping in more daily coursework and curriculum to prep for than his previous years. One of his colleagues is on maternity leave and it’s not that he needed the money they offered for him to pick up her course, but it wasn’t like he had anything else in his life, was there? Everyone else was married, had children, was planning a wedding, major surgery, so on and so forth. They all looked at him. Basil, surely, Basil will do it. Sure, fine, lovely, yes, I accept. Of course. It would be my pleasure. But on top of that he made the mistake of accepting a contract on some translation work, _and_ he’s proof-reading an old professor’s new book with a frantic sense of urgency after the lump of the manuscript got delayed in post.

(Anything to fill the humdrum of his daily life.) (Busy with work, a very fine excuse.)

It’s chaos.

He's eyes are sagging with sleeplessness. His house has taken on the havoc of a university dorm room. There's a worrisome smell in the vegetable drawer of his fridge and he can't be arsed to investigate. If he orders enough take away, he doesn't need to open the fridge at all. Problem solving at its finest. He needs a face mask, a bubble bath, a bottle of wine and stinky French cheese. He needs a good lay, a vacation, a wild night out.

He needs a fucking nap. He needs a goddamn intervention.

No one at work suspects a thing. Every morning he puts on his disguise and steps out the door, buffed and polished. A brand new man. He leaves behind his sloughed skin. He sheds in and out of pretending like a selkie; feet first in he goes, pulling himself tight and stretched. He knots his tie.

I’m quite well, thank you. And yourself?

He does not, cannot, lie to Simon.

Simon knows. Simon lives it. Simon slithers in the muck of his bathwater with him and sleeps on the sheets that are past due for burning. He leaves no trace of himself behind; he dogs Basil’s shadow.

“We’re really in it now, Simon Snow,” he tells his ghost.

(Simon said _Simon_ in the rain running down window panes, in the squeak of dishes, in the crush of sheets in his bed. Basil gave him Snow. Powder white and apple-crunch. Beautiful snow. Dreaming blanket. Opal midnight. Melt in my mouth turn to a hard stone snow. Snow. Press his face into the childhood of him. Throw himself into the arms of snow and make angels. Fall fall falling snow. Eyelash kisses. A fluttering against his mouth. Kisses that chap his lips. Wind raw cheeks. A single flake, a freckle on the land.

Simon Snow, you haunt so kindly. Dead boy, dream boy, rattle my nights awake. Come into the light; see me see me see me.)

( _Baz_.) His lips crust with old blood, old kisses. They numb sweetly.

He hasn’t washed his hair in two weeks. He’s kept it brushed, braided, and piled atop his head for classes but that never stands in the house. Simon unwinds it within minutes of him stepping through the door, his fingers winter’s comb along his scalp. It hangs in crimped waves around Basil’s ears, stroked and tucked. Simon’s adoration frosts the tips to melt in chills down his back. He does not mind as he should; Simon keeps tension headaches away with his petting and his cold.

“Enjoying yourself?” he’d asked one night, his skull about to roll free from his neck, Simon’s touch felt so good.

 _Feels good._ It is spelled in his hair.

He almost couldn’t tell if Simon was asking a question or making a statement.

 _Pet_. The hair on his arms stands up for this one.

“Is that what I am to you? A stray cat?”

 _Here, kitty kitty._ The back of his throat itches with a sneeze.

Once upon a time, when Basil first moved in, it was nothing but pig-tail pulling and his brush disappearing. His shampoo down the drain. The egg carton smashed. The drapes in a froth, the tap running cold. His doors all locked, his tea constantly bitter, pots boiling over. Something angry that shook the floorboards and dropped him to his arse.

In response, he’d tried to exorcise his ghost. What's a Latin teacher to do but light a few candles and chant a few chants.

They'd reached an armistice the first time Mordelia came to visit.

“Please don't hurt her.” (He still doesn’t know what did it. The Please. The Hurt. The Her.)

And his ghost had gone quiet until his little sister grew tired of her big brother, unimpressed by the failure to conjure the supposed ghost (“He’s acting shy.”) and departed once more for greener pastures, to uni and youth.

“Can't you behave like that all the time?”

His books tumbled from the shelf. The telly flicked on, raging loud.

“This isn't a bloody barn, you mannerless cretin. I live here now. I am not moving.” Not after all the work getting his furniture up the steps. He'll die before he moves a four poster bed again. It's antique mahogany; it got chipped. Outrageous. “We need to adapt to each other. Accept reality. Oh -leave my laundry alone!”

His knickers were scampering off under the couch. His socks were fleeing for the sink.

“Truce! My word, this is England, have some civility!” He hoped it was an English ghost. What if it was some American ex-pat? The ruckus stopped. Basil hadn't let down his guard, not yet. “Come on now, wouldn't it be lovelier to get along? Pop in a movie, sit down.”

A coy baited silence.

Basil’s hand, outstretched and unguarded. “I won't try to exorcise you if you let me have a little peace. A little peace and quiet, that's all.”

A void swallowed him up to the wrist that day and crept itself inward ever since. Peace. Ha. No such thing. Quiet? No. Quiet only waited to be broken.

“Truce? Your word?”

_Truce._

“Good man.”

 _Simon._ He lit up the night. An electric whine, the snuff of smoke. _Simon_. He plumed from the cherry end of a cigarette on a summer night. He crawled out the open windows and drew splinters from the porch rail around Basil’s fingers.

The wood creaked between them. Basil leaned with it, found his weight against a weight. Nothing acted as a counterbalance. The house sloped and bowled around them.

“Simon, is it? There could be worse names for a ghost. I’m Basil.”

 _Baz-zz._ A splinter under his thumbnail. _Baz_. The flick of his lighter.

Basil had blown ash into the dark and drew a face from what was left behind. A smudge, a smile. A shape, a man. Smaller than him, lesser. Vaster than him, a great beyond. A ghost. How tragic. A ghost that laughs in the tangle of grass and the singsong of the windchimes; what a terrible gift. There are worse ghosts out there. There are worse ways to live than being haunted.

Funny what a few years of cohabitation can do to a person. A ghost. A set of souls. Scrape away the rough edges, blur the lines. They track mud in circles around each other. They progressed past poking and prodding, the bed all elbows and knees. They made space and softness around each other, what had been becoming what is and will be.

Now it is this: Basil falling asleep at his desk in a puddle of lamplight. The patter of kisses on the frail curve of his neck; an insistent nudge at his side. An annoying ghost.

“Leave me alone, Snow.”

His pages growl at him, the spine of the book beneath his cheek aches brittley as it tries to close. It snaps at his nose.

“Let me sleep.” Tired. Tired. The years are catching up to him. He wants Simon to take the bones out of him. These old bones. Aging is such a drag. God, he’s boring. Look at him, taken back by missing his 9:30pm bedtime too many nights in a row. He needs a bad habit to give him a little life again.

His chairs scoots out slowly with a scuff. An invisible rope knots around his limbs and dances him to his feet. He drapes around the pressure, caught and cradled.

Simon doesn't try to force him up the stairs, stairs are tricky even for ghosts. Basil drops to the couch with a muted splash of cushions and a stretched out yawn. He accepts the blankets that tuck around him.

“Fine. Fine. If it’ll make you happy.” A blue-marrow spine purrs under his hands when he reaches out. He closes a fist around his ghost. “Stay?”

_Always._

He falls asleep in the made-up hours of the twilight morning and wakes to the sun wild noon in late day.

There is a man leaning over him. Basil hurts to look at him. Simon, a sticky wound in the summer; gravel in a burnt palm; grass in a scraped knee.

“You stayed.”

 _Simon_ in a single stroke of light, blood-warm and aglow. The pink of skin held over a lightbulb; organza curls, blunt weapon of a face. Blue eyes that match the veins in Basil’s wrists.

“Five more minutes,” Basil says, burrowing into the blankets he did not grab for himself. Simon, weighty, tucks them tight beneath his chin. He is as blue as a low flame and goes out just as quietly as a fire untended. Basil misses him, but he sleeps. Simon will be back. He always comes back. There is nowhere else for his ghost to go; that is what it is to haunt; Basil has him always; that is what it is to be haunted. Eternity. Loyalty. Death could not part them. What sweet bliss.

 _You're mine._ Basil smiles in his sleep.

There are worse people to haunt.

“Are you eating? I’d rather order for your bottomless hunger now than watch my food disappear.”

His ghost eats. He’ll eat anything. It’s new. It’s only been a few months of appetite. Everyday, the appetite worsens. One day, Basil will forget to feed Simon and he’ll lose a finger to frostbite. He’ll lose a tongue. There are worse hungers out there; Basil knows a family where the ghost swallowed the dog. Left behind a collar and a squeaky toy.

“Hope you two enjoy!” the delivery girl cheers, passing him a heavy crinkling bag of carry out. He’d ordered two of everything; if Simon decides to be picky then he can starve. Basil has impeccable taste.

Ridiculousness sets in as Basil sets the table. He hesitates over a fork.

“Will you even use utensils?” He never sees Simon eat; things just disappear. Voids open up around his house. He’ll step into one of those holes oneday himself if he isn’t careful.

A second hand eases his own down. He releases the fork. Slowly, slowly, his little white napkin folds over itself. Sharp edges. Neat creases.

“Cute.”

The bird settles flightless in the middle of his plate. He transfers it to his nightstand to roost. (He could crush it flat with his hand.)

“Stop changing the channel. No, it’s my turn. We’re watching _Love Actually._ Don’t look at me like that - I can feel you looking. Yes, I own it on DVD but the commercials add a flavour to it. A certain je ne sais quoi if you will.”

Simon keeps flicking the channel to a terrible American movie.

“Why do you make me look at Nicholas Cage when I could have Hugh Grant, Colin Firth, and the rest of England’s nine actors all in one sitting.”

“I will take my laptop into the car to finish watching it,” Basil threatens, lobbing popcorn into the air. He’s in old gym shorts that have seen better days and a footie tshirt for a team he hasn’t played with in over a decade. Almost two. Where did the years ago. He hasn’t spoken to those guys in just as long. The last wedding he attended, that was it. _“Finding a sitter for the weekend was - phew!”_

He couldn’t relate.

If it was now: _“I hope my ghost isn’t tearing the flat apart. Gnaws on the sofa like an anxiety riddled rescue dog. I want to tranquilize him. ”_

“What the hell is this anyway, Tokyo Drift? What are you trying to force me to watch?” He throws more popcorn that never reaches the floor. What the hell is Simon doing, running around with his mouth open, hoovering the air? Basil throws more just to watch it pop out of existence. He really must get Simon on doing the chores more regularly. Lazy sod.

It's very soothing to throw popcorn at a ghost. He can't recommend it enough.

Simon goes for his sides this time, icicle fingers closing around him like an iron maiden. Basil yowls and kicks; popcorn goes flying. Now it's a proper mess.

“Fuck!”

The tickling persists until Basil swears he lands a fist right in Simon’s face with his flailing.

“That is _not_ how we’re doing things!” he snarls, sitting up. A softer touch returns, a featherlight caress over the top of his foot. He twitches. A crawl over his kneecap. He laughs and surrenders, annoyed. Simon settles over him like a wet blanket, patient and pleased.

“I don't know how I live with you.”

His laughter fades out until it is the two of them in the silence of their home. The pressure on his chest abates. Basil settles into the sofa, peering through the empty of the room.

“Did you leave?”

The screen of the telly shatters to static: _I'm here._

“Good. Alright. We can watch your movie. Go on. I've braced myself intellectually.”

_Gone in 60 Seconds._

“Your Nicholas Cage interest worries me, Simon. Angelina, you're in this? How...bizarre.”

Simon pinches his big toe and gives him a wiggle.

“We aren't making a habit of him in this house.”

The popcorn disappears kernel by kernel.

“You're eating floor popcorn?” He throws a handful down beside the couch. It's like feeding ducks. Or chickens. He’s taken up agriculture after all; father would be so proud.

No one comes to gobble it up as the minutes tick by. It sits undisturbed, a glare of yellow polka dots. He opens his mouth to fuss. _Someone’s_ got to clean it up now.

 _Baz_. It crunches and blisters out of the kernels.

“What?” He chews around his anticipation. A chill slinks over him.

Something buttery and soft presses against his lips. Fleeting, shy. He swallows. He chews.

“Well. Go on then.” There are worse people to be kissed by than your ghost.

Simon tastes like a movie theatre. He tastes like a first date. It’s like kissing salt spray. Or the smell of cut grass. Basil moves his mouth around an oil spill and sour candy that makes him drool. He feels blue denim against his bare shins and the hot simmer of asphalt baked by a dog day of summer.

He opens his eyes; his ghost is there, as blue as a distant planet. As cool as a full moon.

He sighs for Simon, and Simon slips in. The kiss spills down his throat. A too full swallow of brine and run-off, of gutter and slush. Thunderhead rumbles _Baz_ in hailstones. His bones yip and yowl in juddering motion as _sink sink sink_ \- a groan not his own; stone at the bottom of the _ocean_ \- _Simon_ \- selkie skin dove into, fin to finger, root to roar, two headed and twinned and that’s a heartbeat named within his heart; their love congenital and misborn; a cold body snugged within his own, a fist around all his ribs, a kiss that’s made of knuckles and ash. Simon buries himself into the kiss until Basil kisses his way into the grave of him.

“Simon,” he gasps; his house is a black hole; the sound stoppers behind his teeth, wine-cork mute _pop_. Simon is as blue as blood; he is as warm as his marrow. He is deliciously dark. Ripe meat and berries. “Gentle -”

His breath steams into the cold air.

“Gentle with me darling,” he pleads. The words don’t make a sound. He writhes in black spots and violet brights. He rocks his cock up into the make-believe of Simon’s body. “Gentle,” he cries. “I’m still alive.”

It stops on a crack of lightning. His hair singes.

 _Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry._ His own gasping breath makes the words.

“I’m still alive,” Basil repeats, patting his body, holding a hand over his heart. It beats lonesomely. He counts it as he finds his breath, wets his throat. “You have to be gentle with the living, love.”

Simon cups his face; he can feel each finger, the width of his palm. _Love,_ an ache behind his eyes. Basil reaches out to touch, but the rest of Simon is nowhere, is wherever Simon is when he isn’t here. Half-made, less than that. Just hands then. Just hands on his face. That’s all that matters. Hands and lips.

“Kiss me gently,” he whispers. Hands and lips. “Gentle, Simon. I’m still alive.”

 _Yes. Gentle. Alive._ He is lemonade sweet; he is tequila and salt. Somehow, wet. A liquor burn all the way down and spread through his belly.

Basil tries not to think about what it looks like, his own open mouth, his own tongue protruding, twisting; the pitiful pleasure of his own face, his bashfully closed eyes. He folds his hands over Simon's hands and presses his lips to Simon’s lips. That’s all he has. That’s all Simon can give right now. It is enough.

He meets Lamb on a Tuesday.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a playlist. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3HMpenqDpp2osf4i2sk26M

* * *

They meet on a Tuesday in a ruffle of disposable cups, in a regret queue for toasted banana bread and overpriced coffee. Lamb is tidy save for his fingertips buried into a powder paczki. He looks over his shoulder and then up, silver-haired in age, well-dressed, decidedly handsome.

“Hello,” he greets boldly as they look at each other full of intent. “May I buy your coffee?”

Basil considers his own wallet in his hand, the powder white of the man’s fingers, the moment and the bursting potential, and says yes.

He forgoes his morning prep hour in exchange for the company. Impromptu forty minutes that sit hot and sudden inside him; a jitter in his fingers; a smile he keeps giving this man. Ashley Lamb “just Lamb, please,” is new in town. He’s retired. He was an architect. He likes to take long walks.

“Does that make me sound old?”

“It sounds very nice.”

It is on a walk that Basil tells Lamb he has a ghost.

“Haunted, you say? Dear boy-”

Basil laughs. Boy. “You aren’t old enough to play that game.”

“Older than you.” That’s quite true. Lamb is older than him; Lamb is quite content with the passage of time.

“I’ve embraced it. It’s freeing, aging. You have to forgive yourself for your youth first.”

“How embarrassing you were?”

“Oh, and this and that. Once you start to forgive yourself for the person that you are, you find yourself much less the angry child you flinch at remembering.”

Basil laughs even as he aches. There's too much in his past to left go of; he'd disappear. He'd held up by memories. He makes love to his ghost. “My leg’s getting bad. Slid on the pitch a few months ago, think I ruined the whole left side of my body.”

“Did you steal the ball?”

Pride is a silly thing. “I scored.”

“Well worth the sacrifice.”

They take a long walk out in the sun, through shade and grass; they step silently off the path as cyclists ring past. The day stretches as leisurely as a cat.

“I know a few trails, if you don’t mind a bit of a hike next time,” Basil offers. He wants to walk more with Lamb. So he does; they do so in the following weeks. It’s been months, no, years, since he spent so much time out of the house.

He comes home smelling like green and gold; Simon licks him raw with a scalpel tongue; the little callouses of the day wear away in the tide of his undeath.

 _It’s dark,_ is how Simon chides Basil on late nights come home, winding around Basil’s feet and up, stirring the collar of his shirt into disorder. He cricket merrily from the corners of the house, little insect legs singing and whining. He's an invasion; he was here first.

“We like the dark,” Basil soothes, kissing him. He steps onto Simon’s feet as a small girl would to be slow danced through the room. Simon’s grown in the last year. He’s nearly there sometimes; transparent and framed in a flicker of fire. He is tepid, water at the bedside. Basil’s mouth dries when they kiss for too long; he thirsts after. He dizzies with fasting. His belly opens with little holes punched through by a determined hand. Simon is gentle when he wants to unmake Basil.

 _Baz_ slipstreams through his organs, swallowed and sewed deep.

From the crevices of the viewpoint on his next hike, Basil collects a crumpled bouquet of rockrose, all pink and stained. Lamb touches his back lightly and then firmly. He mistakes Basil’s interest and tucks one behind Basil’s ear.

“Flowers suit you, darling.”

“These are for my ghost.” He would place them at his kitchen table like he would before a gravestone. Simon. Simon. Simon Snow. Where are your bones buried? He wants to dig up his floors. Peel off the wallpaper and sniff him out. Burn him out of the house and root through the ashes.

“Your ghost.” Lamb touches his cheek. “Your ghost.”

“Yes.” He’s puzzled. “He’s mine.”

“Are you the dead thing, my dear?”

“Not yet.”

“How is he your ghost? Say it again.”

“He’s my ghost.” He doesn’t understand.

Lamb shakes his head and leads the way down.

Maybe you must be haunted to understand. Basil knows a man who tries to deny having a ghost. It doesn’t suit either party very well. Denial only worsens a haunting, after all. It turns to shapeshifters in the night, to shadow walkers. That ghost has mad ideas.

Simon’s wore himself out on haunting. He has better things to do these days.

_Missed you._ The front door locks shut behind him. The hinges stiffen. He will grease them in the morning if he wants to leave. _You were gone so long._

“Stalker,” Basil says into the breezy puffing along the nape of his neck; Simon trickles down his spinal cord like water off the rainspout. Itsy bitsy spider, up and down. He breaks out in goosebumps that last all night as he sleeps in the coffin of Simon’s embrace. Simon curls in his guts like a ghoul, like a stray come home.

Basil wakes with fading black spots for eyesight.

 _Have a good day._ Basil kisses him in the open doorway, long and slow. He has stopped feeling embarrassed by himself; if he looks ugly twisted in the air, then so be it; Simon has slept inside his skin, as close as he can get. There is nothing to hide from anymore. Basil hits the sidewalk and the world is robin’s egg bliss. So blue.

“I knew you were haunted when we met.”

“How?” Basil looks into the nearest storefront mirror. Flowers. A white vase. Him and roses. “I don’t look haunted.” He looks good.

“Do Not Date This Man,” Lamb pronounces, drawing Basil to the corner of the street to wait for the crosslight.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re famous, Basil. Don’t you know? You pop up when one searches for gay owned establishments in town.”

_“What.”_

> ~~[This establishment is Gay Owned.]~~
> 
> [Do NOT date this man. Basil Pxxxx. He’s a sicko. He says he’s haunted but I think he’s just some HH Holmes wannabe. Very charming, very attractive. Lures you into his house to torture you. Possible vampire. Locked me in the bathroom and tried to drown me. I am warning you.]
> 
> [You sound mental]  
> [pics?]  
> [I KNOW HIM YEHA HES A LOON my mate saw him for a few dates and tried to stay the night. Said the whole time he was there the lights kept going out and something kept knocking into him. The basil guy said its a ghost. ]  
> [oi yeah ive heard of him.]  
> [#lovewins]  
> [is he liek supe r hot that everoynes tring to fuck him??]  
> [honestly. Yeah.]  
> [is the ghost hot? Asking for a friend.]  
> [don’t out the man.]  
> [he’s a serial killer.]  
> [is it a gay ghost?]

“Bit embarrassing,” Lamb sighs. “Although I do enjoy knowing I’ve found you fair and square myself.”

“Damn you, Jared,” Basil curses, scanning the thread. It’s buried in the comments of some bar. The bar he met Jared at originally. Coward. Gossip queen. He should have let Simon do far worse. “What’s he done to my reputation?”

“Love,” Lamb breaks it to him gently with a pat to his hand. “You’ve done this to yourself. You are a bit sick.”

“I'm not to blame. It’s my ghost.”

He takes Lamb’s elbow to cross the street, sighing burdensomely. Perhaps he has done this to himself.

He rails at Simon that night. Blames him for the mess of his life. Simon guiltlessly reenacts Jared’s terrible no good time until Basil loses the fight in favor of laughter. Simon mimes quite well without taking a class. What do the opinions of others matter in the end? Even Lamb hadn’t minded, had he? It’s better this way.

In the morning, Simon steals bites of his eggs, wears Basil’s bathrobe. Simon has bare feet. Perfectly normal bare feet. Dimpled knees. Freckled thighs. Basil knows that if he lifted up the robe, he’d see through to the other side. Simon has hands and no wrists. A head atop no shoulders. He’s a series of dissected parts strung together in hopeful impersonation. He makes a chimera of himself, gobbling mouths and greedy hands,

“That’s a good look on you,” Basil praises. He feeds Simon from his fork, every bite. He wasn’t very hungry anyway. Simon makes a show of chewing and swallowing. Basil doesn’t try to guess where it goes. That way lies madness.

 _Call in sick today._ The butter melts on toast that isn’t even warm.

“Some people have to work for a living.”

_You think you’re funny._

“My life is a joke.”

Simon laughs at him, a buoyant untethered sound. _You’re so fucking grim._ He shows all his teeth with his smile. It’s too many teeth. _Enjoy it while it lasts._

“When do I get to meet the ghost?” Lamb asks one day. Lamb asks more routinely and confidently than any man before. Basil still isn’t sure if he believes him. No one truly does. Not even those with third party sources. Vampire. If only.

“Don’t tease me about him.”

“I’m quite serious.”

“He’d rip you apart.”

Lamb smiles an oil slick. “I’d like to see him try.”

That night, Basil doesn’t go home. He lets Lamb rip him apart. It’s nearly noon when he returns the next, pleasantly sore. Lamb’s heat lingers inside him.

He opens the door into a windtunnel. He steps into quickstand. Simon’s the scream of steel on steel.

_Baz! Where were you?_

_Baz! Are you hurt?_

Simon billows up beneath him like a steam grate.

“I had a date.”

It sucks the air out of the room.

The house blanks. The nails rust. The curtains draw him into darkness. He sleepwalks through it, trailing his hand on his walls, his furniture; it shifts beneath his touch, creeping away from him. Make way, make way. The tap runs cold on him.

“Simon, don’t be a child.”

Simon’s face bubbles up from the drain. He sticks out his tongue and fades away. Basil splashes a hand through the reflection. His reflection. He’s mirror sliced. Two sets of eyes watch him.

“Get back here.” He crawls into the bath to poke his fingers down the drain in pursuit, his socks still on. Flings them sopping across the room to squash like fruit in the corner. Trampled and dripping. “Simon, love. Come back. I'm cold.”

_Aren’t I enough?_

“Am I?” Basil counters, sinking into the water. It’s hot. It’s steaming. Boiling. The bubbles wither. “Am I enough?”

Simon cannonballs in with him. He speaks in the ripple and wave. _You’re everything I need._

“That’s easy to say when you have nothing.”

_I have you._

“Like I said,” Basil says primly. He sinks his hand down into the water and between his legs to touch where he’s soft and sore. He wants to linger in the sensation; he wants to show off. Ugly delight unspools from him. He wants Simon in blood and carnage. “You have nothing.”

 _You’re my nothing._ Simon makes fingers that blur golden under the water, a twist of light disappearing into Basil. The image fades as pressure sinks into him. Simon kisses him, vanishing, until Basil twists with the bellyache of Simon filling him up. _I have you._ _You have me. Nothing and Nothing equals Something._

A hole wants to be filled. Nothing is just the moment before Something. (It is the After.)

Basil gasps, sunk down into the bath. Simon turns anchor heavy and brings his bones to the basement. The happy wound Lamb left behind opens again. Simon webs through him until he’s cocooned and quiet. The water comes. His head goes under. The roof follows; timber and shingle. Paint runs like wax on the walls. His blood coos in the hush; it whispers into his ears.

_We have each other. I’ll always be with you._

Simon kisses him and pries him open and wide, skin and lash. He holds him down by ankle and wrist. The drowning drag you down with them.

Basil screams bubbles, god-seed, and foam. He breaks up through the surface, all fight and fury, glistening and gagged. He coughs. Blood and wine. Gold coins. He unpays his way back from death. Bronze curls fall from his fingers. He’s dragged a body out of the drain, a second skin. It unspirals from the web of his fingers. Simon. Blue and pruned. Simon in snowmelt and shivers. Basil lays in the tub holding the soft cheek to his chest and pets the disappearing spine. Simon comes and goes, weeping and silent; he’s a siren wail without motion. Nothing moves. He rots in globs, phantasm, his hum buzzing out of the rafters and filaments. Heatstroke, sunspot. Basil rides the storm in a porcelain safehouse.

“Enough, enough,” Basil demands. “Don’t be like this. Don’t try to come to this side of the world.” It breaks them both when he tries. Simon keeps trying to bring flesh to his doorstep. It’s a series of chewed mice and window-battered birds. Simon can only ever be half-made. A toe over the line. He sneaks in and out. Don’t look too hard, don’t see too much; it hurts to look. It hurts to be seen. Worse unseen. It hurts to hide.

It hurts to haunt. He keeps trying to do it gently. He wasn't made for it.

Simon takes his corpse with him when he goes, dragging it out of this life like a soldier, like a scrap. Like a fresh kill, blood in his muzzle. Basil does not dream of finding his bones again, nor a finger, nor the smell of a slash and burn. He keeps himself up with nightmares. He makes shadowpuppets on the wall.

Simon meets his bunny-ears with a pair of his own. They hop together. How does a ghost cast a shadow? Simon is the shadow. He's a wet mark on the wall. He's in his bed.

Basil rolls onto his side to face the dark. “Did I ever tell you about my mother?”

Her ghost would have long since burned down the house. It’s better she never came back. Some things are meant to move on.

“Today,” he tells Lamb. He’s thin and blind in the sun. Lamb sits him down, buys him a ridiculous frothy coffee. He needs to have less sugar. Another day, perhaps. “But I’m warning you. He’s my ghost.”

“I know ghosts,” Lamb assures him. His touch is gentle.

_Gentle, my love._

“I’m warning you.” He doesn’t know why, for what. The lighthouse cry of his home calls out to him. Warning and welcome.

“I eat ghosts like him for breakfast.”

A mouth can only swallow so much. A pound of flesh. The body only has so much to give.

  
They kiss as Basil always kisses a man before he comes into his house. For luck, for farewell. Godspeed.

“I quite like you,” he admits to Lamb. “I’ll be sorry when he scares you off.”

“Don’t be so sure, darling. I’ve lived through many things in my time.”

Lamb steps into the fray. Simon’s waiting, boiling over; he’s a gunshot.

_This is him?_

Basil’s never kept a man for himself for so long. They’ve always shared the disaster together, perpetuating their isolation. Just the two of them, locked away. Basil warned Lamb. He wants to tell Simon not to hurt him, he quite likes the man, but this is the nature of things. Simon doesn’t listen to him most days anyway. He’s stubborn.

Lamb admires the chandelier. Basil watches it shake free of its bolts, plaster dust drifting down before the shatter.

“Simon.”

It falls. A million broken things. Lamb keeps walking, undisturbed, running a proprietary hand over the spines of his books on the shelf. Basil blinks heavily, reeling in the crash. He looks again; the chandelier hangs as it ever does.

“One Hundred Years of Solitude, really, Basil,” he teases, tipping the book half out of its space and then pressing it back in evenly, rubbing his thumb at the edge to line it neatly with the others. Basil leans into the wall for support and drifts along in Lamb’s exploratory footsteps. He can’t see Simon, but the house ripples around him like an animal shaking out its fur.

“Tea?” he manages to offer, finding his civility amongst the heathen trappings of his home.

 _Why is he here?_ Simon goes to rattle Basil’s teaset out of the curio. _This is our home._

“These are sentimental,” Basil warns his ghost, lifting the teapot up and away. Why indeed; this is what they do. Lamb watches the show coolly. Simon dissolves acidly into the sugar cubes, melting into bitter and tannin.

“Cream, please,” Lamb says, holding out his cup for Basil to pour. It curdles instantly. Lamb sips it and hums his pleasure. “We should have stopped for pastries.”

Basil looks into his teacup and sips it; ice cold. Spoiled. He sets it down, swallowing back his revulsion. Steam wafts up from Lamb’s, silvery and delicate. The older gentleman sits untouched, unmolested, completely at ease.

“How are you - I don't understand.” Simon should have torn him apart. Basil should be bagging up body parts.

“How am I unaffected?” Lamb sets his cup into its saucer. “It’s simple. I give no power to anything but myself.”

“You know, I say things like that, but here I am paying taxes…” The only sure things in life are death and taxes.

“The only thing I care to acknowledge here is you, Basil. Ghosts are just memories. Often, not even our own. You don’t have to give them power.”

As if he’s given Simon anything.

“He has power.” Simon’s wickedly powerful. He’s beyond comprehension. Stunning. Basil wants to stroke him now and leech it from him. Be undone by him.

Lamb tsks his tongue. “Because you’ve given it to him. What have you done but feed it, talk to it,” he lays his hand on Basil’s and smiles kindly, “love it? It’s alright, I can tell. Don’t be embarrassed. It’s the nature of things, to love your constant. But when it comes to a haunting, you only make it stronger; you reinforce it.”

Basil has nothing to do with this. Simon was here first. “He’s real.”

“No.” Lamb’s matter of fact, calmly dismissive. “You’re making him real.”

Basil shakes his head furiously. He’s watching Simon now, trying to pry Lamb’s hand of his. Simon’s furious. Simon’s a riot. Lamb isn’t so much as flinching.

“He was here first.” Basil found him. Or, Simon was waiting to be found. Or was it - Basil opened the door and Simon slunk in behind him?

“Only an echo.”

“An echo of what? He came before me.” Simon is dead; he happened first. “He started this.”

When was it, a decade ago?

“You spoke back, did you not? Words have power, and you gave him more. It’s alright. It’s normal. What’s the first thing we say when we step into the dark?”

Basil swallows. He knows what he said the first time he found himself trapped in the dark here, all alone. He said what anyone would say: “Hello.”

_Hello..._

_Who’s there..._

_Show yourself..._

_Come out come out wherever you are._

“Hello,” Lamb echoes. “It’s only natural. We greet the dark, hoping what greets us is kind. Hoping we’re alone. Hoping we’re not alone. That’s how they get in. Don’t greet it, don’t give it a hand. Offer it a hand, and it takes the whole arm.” Lamb pauses. “Don’t ever name it. Once you name it, you claim it. They think they belong to you. A haunting goes both ways.”

Basil swallows again, sick, watching Simon struggle at Lamb’s pinky as if it weighs the whole world. A hand on his. A hand in his. “But you’re talking about him right now. You’re talking about my ghost-”

“Your ghost,” Lamb cuts him off. “Listen to yourself, Basil. Truly, say it slowly.”

“My ghost.”

“Yours?"

He doesn’t understand. He’s haunted. What else would he say? Simon is his. He is Simon’s. Haunted. Hunted. Hello?

“I’m haunted,” he snaps, pulling his hand away from Lamb’s. Simon paces around them; when Basil withdraws, he fills the space. _Send him away._ He settles around Basil’s throat like a mink, hissing and coiled. _I don't trust him._

“You’re haunting yourself, Basil. That’s what this is. Your ghost, like you’re the dead thing. You have no ghost. Every time you say your ghost, you give more of yourself to him. He becomes more of you. Don’t you feel….thin? Empty?”

Simon fills him up. The blur of years rushes up to greet him like a head wound. He feels doubled, not thin. “You’re making me sound crazy. I’m not crazy.”

“No,” Lamb says immediately. “No, you’re not. I’m not saying that. I’m saying, a ghost is nothing but a memory. Forgettable. Forgive and forget. He’s nothing; at the end of it all, he’s nothing. He can only take. He cannot give. He’s all used up. Let him fade away.”

“He’s not nothing.”

 _Fuck this guy._ Simon’s winds around his neck, scales tinkling like armor; around he goes, chasing his own tail. _Baz. Baz. Baz. Baz._

“Hush,” Basil scolds, reaching to rub at his throat. His vocal chords are thrumming with Simon’s discontent.

“Only because you’ve made him into something.”

“But I didn't."

Nothing is just the moment before Something. Even nothing is something. Darkness is not nothing, it is Dark. The blank peace of lacunae. When he closes his eyes, he has Simon. There. Holding his hand. Simon Snow richly dark. Basil works his jaw and licks his chapped lips. His tongue swells in his mouth, his tastebuds sour and fuzzy. He’s parched. "Did I?"

He knows a woman. She stopped being haunted. “Didn’t suit me,” she said. He couldn’t understand. It suits him just fine. He was born to be haunted. That’s how it feels. He can hardly remember a time he wasn’t; was there a time before Simon? Was he ever anything at all before Simon?

“Lamb,” he reaches for him urgently, almost knocking over their teacups. “Lamb am I - am I dead?”

Lamb looks at him madly. “What?”

“Tell me now: Am I dead?” He looks at his hands on Lamb and is afraid to look further; what if he is just hands; just a voice. Haunting desperately and looking for a way out, a way through, a way back into life. He put on his skin today. He buttoned his shirt. He tied his shoes. He left the house. He said hello when he bought his coffee. Was he here at all? Was anyone here at all?

Simon is there, a kiss on his wrinkled forehead. _Don’t be stupid.  
_

“Darling, Basil, no. No, you’re quite alive.” He puts a palm to Basil’s cheek, warm and full of life. “You’re still alive. It’s alright. You’re alright.”

“Alright.” He lets out a breath and takes another and lets that out to. Takes another. Keeps going. “Yes. Yes. Of course. Sorry. Had a - a moment there.”

“Completely understandable. This is what they do.” Is it? “Now then, I've made my point. Let’s get you out of this house; we can figure this out.”

_No!_

He feels his eyes roll sideways to look at Simon. Lamb’s hand comes up and turns his cheek back; he kisses Basil purposefully. The house howls and bays. Lamb pays no mind to the whip of Basil’s hair. Basil sees it lash his face to shreds; he blinks and Lamb is whole again. The cutlery rattles in its drawers; the windows frost over.

“Enough,” he protests, twisting away from Lamb, rising from his sofa. “Wait, that’s enough.” His ears ring and it has nothing to do with Simon.

“A little distance will help you move on-”

“Move on-”

“There is a way to starve these things out of existence-”

“Starve him!” He laughs himself back to reality, barking at it. “Not after all the work I’ve done fattening him up.”

Simon prowls as a cold draft between his legs, a leak in the insulation.

Lamb sighs heavily and rises, smoothing a hand down the front of his shirt. “You can’t live like this.”

“I’ve lived fine enough as I am.”

Lamb pauses and gives him a considering look. “I’m not trying to insult you, Basil. Truly, I am not. I care for you a great deal and want to help you. This isn’t good for you. You’re so much more than what you’ve become.”

He looks at his hands. Whole. Hand to wrist to elbow and so on. Alive. “What am I?”

“Haunted. That’s all you are anymore.”

Lamb doesn’t understand. “There are worse things than being haunted. My ghost loves me. Can you say the same?”

There’s a beat of hesitation. “I care for you a great deal. I’d like to love you.”

“Yes but,” a flake of snow settles to melt in his palm. He closes his fist around it. “Death could not part me from Simon.” Death has given him Simon.

When he looks at Lamb again, he sees immeasurable sadness. The open face of pity. A man watching another man die. “Basilton.”

_Baz._

“Try it with me,” Lamb offers him again, stepping around the coffee table. “I’m offering you the choice, the opportunity. You can be free of this burden."

He’s been carrying Simon so long, he doesn’t know how to put him down.

Basil waits for the uproar, for Simon to throw a fit and rage against Lamb. To cry his name and tug on his hands. To kiss him, to crawl inside him. But he’s quiet.

Basil doesn’t know what to do with quiet. He tries to find his voice.

“I love him.”

Lamb nods. “I know.”

Basil nods, looking down for his shadow. He has none. The house remains quiet as Lamb crosses to him and takes up his hand, squeezing his fingers. He kisses Basil gently. They never kiss him when they leave.

“Good luck then, darling. You know how to reach me.”

“Goodbye,” Basil whispers long after he’s been left alone. It does not burst as the day passes into night. It’s been so long since he was alone. It fits poorly in this house. He takes off his skin and slides into his robe. He fries half his fridge in butter and eats himself sick and grease-stained. He licks his fingers, picks his teeth. No one teases him, no one joins him.

“Why are you hiding from me? I know you’re here.”

The television brightens to the test pattern. It beeps the long low alarm of satellites. _I’m here._

“I know,” Basil tells him, hiding his relief. He did not know. If he can leave Simon, couldn’t the same be said of him; he can be left now too. He wished he didn’t know. “But you’re hiding.”

Simon turns off the telly. The absence rings just as loud. _I’m giving you the choice._

Basil snarls. “Don't patronize me.”

Simon doesn't rise to the bait. 

“Fine then, you mercurial thing. Run off. I’ll call for you when I want you.” He undoes his robe and walks naked through his house, pressing into the windows as he draws the curtains, smearing himself against them. Simon does not try to spook him or flounce him. No eyes peer in from the night. No hands fog the glass. Basil does not call for him. Does not search him out of the corners. He does not look over his shoulder. It doesn't suit him.

He draws a bath. He slips inside. He pulls his knees to his chest. He's alive. It's a lonely feeling. It's a burden. There's nothing worse than being all alone.

“Hello?”

_Hello yourself._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I'm the stray crawling back to you. Leave the door open and the light on.


End file.
